


Monster Cock

by okapi



Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Crack, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Greg Lestrade, Omega John Watson, Oral Sex, Rimming, Roleplay, Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Monster Alpha Cocks and the Omegas who love them.Chapter 1. Sherlock's past comes back to haunt him.Chapter 2. John has a surprise in store.Chapter 3. Who is the mysterious Yeti-Prick? MystradeChapter 4. Role-play in the woods. Mystrade.Chapter 5. Sherlock's invention goes awry.Sherlock 'The Fucking Machine' Holmes/John Watson. Mycroft/Lestrade. For Kinktober 2018 - Day 18: Fucking Machine & Day 24 - Shower/Bath & Olfactophilia (Scent)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It wouldn't be Kinktober without a bit of The Fucking Machine!

“Oh, dear God. Wait, is that…?”

John leaned in, his nose almost touching the screen.

Sherlock huffed and lowered the journal he was reading. “John, for the hundredth time, it is possible to make the image larger…”

“Fuck that,” said John without rancor. “Sherlock, did you dress your cock up for Hallowe’en?”

Sherlock contemplated prevarication, then realising the futility of it, decided to take the high road.

“It was for charity, John.”

“Charity?! What charity?!”

“The Strad is a gift to all who hear it,” replied Sherlock extending an elegant hand toward the violin. “You’ve often said so yourself.”

John laughed a genuine laugh, and Sherlock smiled. All squabbling at this point would be sport.

“You wrapped your cock up in bandages, put googly eyes on it, took a photograph of it, and sold it?” asked John.

“Oh, John,” huffed Sherlock. “No.”

“No?! Because that’s what it looks like.”

Sherlock let the journal drop to the floor and unfolded himself from the armchair and strode to the desk. Leaning over John’s shoulder, he said,

“That looks like copyright infringement. Damn internet pirates!”

“Sherlock!”

“John, you are, as is your habit, missing the most important part.”

“Well, as is your habit, enlighten me.”

“I wrapped my _very, very large and erect_ cock up in bandages, put googly eyes on it, took a photograph of it, and sold it.”

“The Mummy?”

“The Big Daddy Mummy.”

John groaned. “Of course. And Omegas lapped it up.”

“For a fee. How could you tell?”

“Dunno. Something about it looked familiar.”

“It’s a credit to you, John, and your powers of observation. I'm a master of disguise. You’ve often said so yourself.”

“I also say you’re a certifiable nutter.”

John raised a hand, and Sherlock caught John’s fingers in his and brought them to his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes for those who haven't read the first story in this series. Sherlock was working as an Alpha stud (a prostitute) at St. Bartholomew’s Centre for Secondary Sex Studies (also known as The Farm) when he met John. Sherlock and John shared a heat and developed a unique bond which was subsequently called 'a Stamford bond' after the matchmaker that brought them together. It's a bond without the traditional (if anything passes for tradition in O-verse?!) biting of the bonding gland, so John still smells like an unbonded Omega. Stamford's a professor/researcher/academic in secondary sex studies.

“I suppose everyone does something nutty every now and then. I mean, look at me, I invaded Afghanistan.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock turned away, but the expression on his face gave John pause.

“It was just the one, right?”

“One what?” asked Sherlock blankly, far, far too blankly for a bloody genius.

“How many more photographs of your,” John snorted, “fancy dress cock did you take, Sherlock?”

“The first one, the Mummy, was exceedingly remunerative, John, and at the time, of course, Mycroft had cut me off and I had certain expenses...”

‘Certain expenses’ were, of course, drugs and payment for damages incurred while high.

“Right,” said John. “Care to show me the others?”

* * *

“Ghost.”

John laughed.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Amusing, but not a great seller.”

“Well, that’s the whole point of a ghost costume: it’s difficult to tell what’s underneath, which, I suppose, when you think about it, is precisely _not_ the point if one’s buying photos of costumed Alpha cocks.”

“Yes, that was lesson learned. Now, this is a still from,” Sherlock tapped on the computer screen, “this video. And it _was_ an unqualified hit.”

“Oh my God! _Count Cockula: Dead Stiff and Lovin’ It_!”

John watched, his mouth hanging open, his brow furrowed.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed when the credits were rolling.

“I know.”

“Play it again?”

“Of course.”

* * *

“Wow, wow, Sherlock.” John shook his head. “This confirms that you and I are mates.”

“Really, John? Not the fact that you and I are, in the whole of the known world, one of two pairs of complementary secondary sexes who have forged a quasi-empathic bond without the rupture of a bonding gland?”

“Yes, apart from the Stamford bond. I mean, five minutes ago I thought you were barking, and now I’m just bloody curious. How did you get your,” John looked in the direction of Sherlock’s crotch and smirked, “Cockula to rise up out of his coffin on cue?”

“John, I wasn’t the most popular Alpha stud at St. Bartholomew’s Centre for Secondary Sex Studies for nothing.”

John shot him a look. “I know, but even with your supreme control of transport, it had to have been tricky. I mean, you had to get the camera in place, and then wank, right? And then put the costume on? The fangs and everything? And all without losing your erection?”

“I commandeered one of the empty suites at The Farm to shoot it and helped myself to some of the samples at the lab.”

“The lab?”

“The Farm has a research side, John, and most of their work is around replicating pheromones. Through a bit of trial-and-error, I found the synthetic Omega pheromone that would keep my cock in business long enough to produce that.”

“Sherlock, playing roulette with your body is very dangerous!”

Sherlock shot John a look.

“I know, I know,” John muttered. Then he added in a mock-Sherlock voice. “’I said ‘danger’ and here you are.’”

“No side effects were noted, Doctor.”

“Good. You know, I quite like Count Cockula and I respect your, uh, dedication to your craft, but do you have plans for more photos?”

“I’ve no reason to do anything like it again, John. I’m not in need of funds, and between cases and the work on the lubricant and the talking vibrator, I haven’t the time even if I was hard-up.”

“Hard-up. Heh. Right. Good. One last question.”

“Yes?”

“Can you, uh, save this to my computer?”

* * *

“Do you fancy a take out, Sherlock? Or I could make that thing with the peas.”

“Nothing for me. I’m going out tonight.”

“Oh, all right. Take out for one it is. Where are you going?”

There was a silence.

John would know if Sherlock was lying, that was part of their bond, that Sherlock’s lies changed his pheromonal chemistry enough to where John could smell them.  And Sherlock’s lies smelled foul, truly rotten, but John respected Sherlock’s privacy. After all, most people didn’t have to live with a human lie detector, why should Sherlock? Everyone had secrets.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. Have a good time.”

Sherlock bit his lip. He was shifting from one foot to the other, resembling nothing so much as a schoolboy about to recite ‘The Boy Who Stood on the Burning Deck’ in front of the class.

“I’m going to help a friend,” he said.

John’s eyebrows rose. “Dangerous?”

“No.”

“But…?”

“It is in contradiction to something we discussed earlier.”

John crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “Okay. You’re going to have to help me out, Sherlock. One more clue.”

“Hopkins needs money.”

John frowned. “And you’re going to float him a loan?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s Hopkins. He won’t take charity. He’s got an idea for a Hallowe’en video, and he wants some help.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Yeah. He’s asked Gregson, Jones, and a new stud named MacDonald to help.”

“And they agreed?!”

“It’s Hopkins. We may not like each other, but we all like him.”

“Honour among studs?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re going to do it at The Farm?”

“Yeah, like I did the Cockula one. Hopkins wants me to get some Omega pheromones from the lab. Should be fairly easy with Stamford away at a conference.”

“So, what’s the idea for the video? Return of Cockula?”

Sherlock turned pink when he said, “Monster Mash with the Crypt-Kicker Five.”

John whistled, then laughed. “Five?! Okay, okay. Five Alphas. You know, you’re a bunch of idiots.”

“Most Alphas are. John?”

John winked. “I love you. Have fun.”

* * *

Jones groaned.

“God save the fucking Science! That’s synthetic Omega, Machine?”

“Yesss,” hissed Sherlock through clenched teeth.

“Well, fuck me, it smells just like the real thing.”

“Hell yeah, it does, it smells just like a ripe, un-fucking-bonded Omega who’s just got a whiff of the best bloody dog in town,” said Gregson. “Hopkins! Get your Francis Ford Prickula on and shoot this bloody thing! I gotta wank, like, yesterday until tomorrow.”

“Hold your horse-dicks, lads,” said Hopkins adjusting the camera. “Thanks, Machine, for getting the good stuff. Staying power, not a problem.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. He was biting his lip, trying valiantly not to scream John’s name.

Jones began to mumble as if in prayer, “Come here, baby, come here, spread those legs, I’ll fill you up, make you feel so, so good, give you just what you need…”

MacDonald groaned. “God Almighty! I’m gonna…”

“All right! Perfect!” cried Hopkins, throwing off his dressing gown. “Here I come!”

“Here we all come, ya bloody bastard!”

* * *

“Don’t worry about it, Hopkins. See to the editing. I’ll take care of removing the evidence.”

“Really? Thanks, Machine. I owe you an interesting case.”

“Three. And I’m going to hold you to them, Sargent.”

When the door closed, Sherlock quickly stripped the two beds of their sheets and dumped the sheets in the soiled linen bin. Then he reached beneath the bed…

…and hauled out what, or rather who, was hidden there.

“JOHN!”

“Hello, Sherlock!” John got to his feet, grinning cheekily while he brushed dust off his shoulders and tied the sash of his dressing gown.

“That was most reckless, John.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich. Hopkins was chuffed, wasn’t he? I hope he caught the shot of all five of you coming at once.”

“I’m certain the final result will exceed expectations.”

“Like a Vegas fountain, wasn’t it?”

“The similarity is undeniable as is the danger to an unbonded Omega in a room with five aroused Alphas.”

“I wasn’t afraid.”

“I know, my half of our Stanford bond, remember? Your fear makes me sick. I would’ve known if you were afraid. But you weren’t. You were bloody aroused!”

“Five Alphas, Sherlock, including mine.”

John stepped towards Sherlock until their chests were touching, then he looked up and whispered,

“I was half-wanting you to pull me out and take me right in front of them.”

“And that’s why were mates, John.”

“Not the Stamford bond?”

“No, the fact that I was half-wanting the same thing. Why, John?"

"Maybe I'm just an Alpha cock whore."

"Try again."

"I was worried that synthetic pheromones would hurt you or our bond."

"John..."

Sherlock untied John’s dressing gown, then his own.

“Fuck, Sherlock, being in a Farm suite, where we first met, during my heat…”

“Yes, brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

John looked down at Sherlock’s hard cock and licked his lips. “Memories I want to revisit.”

“How convenient we’ve a lubricant-dispensing bed right here!”

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to fill his palm with slick. He coated his cock while John pulled the sides of his dressing gown apart and inched closer.

They both threw their heads back and exhaled slowly as John sank down on Sherlock’s cock.

“Fu-u-u-ck!”

At once, John began to roll his hips and clench his muscles ‘round Sherlock’s cock.

“God, John, whatever those bastards were imagining, it wasn’t the half of it.” He looked down at John’s undulating body. “That’s right. You were playing with yourself under there, mmm?”

John grinned. “Yeah, first on my back, with my legs spread as wide as they’ll go.”

“Fuck, John!” Sherlock licked the ridge between John’s neck and shoulder, caressing the skin covering John’s bonding gland with his tongue. “I knew it. Milk me, baby.”

At the final word, so unlike Sherlock and yet so like an Alpha, John’s cunt squeezed hard.

“John!”

John’s cunt relaxed. “Then I turned on my stomach,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear “and lifted my arse as high as it would go.”

Sherlock gave a choking cry as he came. His breath was still ragged when he said,

“That’s why we all came. You were presenting. Textbook.”

“Textbook, eh? Well, you ought to know.”

“Fantasy-fulfillment aside, I’m wholly relieved they didn’t find you, John,” said Sherlock hoarsely. He peppered kisses along John’s neck and jawline while his hands skimmed John’s hips and buttocks. “It seems incredible that not one of them suspected.”

“Idiots, right?”

“More than even I estimated.”

John untangled himself and, with Sherlock’s assistance, stood.

“Sherlock…”

“There’s time, John.”

“Mount me?”

“Of course.”

John let the dressing gown fall to the floor.

Sherlock shifted, allowing John to climb on the bed and crawl on all fours to the centre. John lifted his arse.

“Just like that,” said Sherlock, taking a moment to get more lubricant, then following John, moving forward on his knees.

“Mmm.”

Sherlock petted his flaccid cock. “It may take a minute or two.”

John’s voice was a mock whine as he pressed his head to the bed and raised his arse even higher.

“Oh, but I need a monster cock. Something big and thick to fill me up. I’m so open and wet.” John licked his lips and made loud smacking noises. “I’m aching for it. Please give it to me. Oh, God, do you think Gregson’s still stiff?”

“Or maybe not,” growled Sherlock as he slammed his cock into John’s cunt.

“Oof!” John coughed at the force of impact, then said shakily, “Hell-o!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t you order the Monster Cock? Or do I have you confused with another needy Omega?”

“I can take everything you’ve got, Big Boy, and have you begging to give me more.”

Sherlock chuckled and began to thrust in and out. “And _that_ , ladies and gentlemen, is the real reason why…”

John buried his grin in the bed and finished the sentence.

“…we’re mates.”

Sherlock slowed his rhythm and reached around, his fingertips brushing John’s erect cock. “John?”

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and stilled it. “Wait. You know you want me to come down your throat, and I, unlike the Fucking Machine, do not have a Farm-hand’s refractory period. One and done, baby.”

Sherlock nodded. He resumed his former position and speed, gripping John’s hips and thrusting quick and deep.

“Textbook,” he breathed as he came. Then he withdrew and dropped down, pressing his face to John’s crack and drinking his own release from John’s hole.

John snickered. “Pray tell, Sherlock, in what chapter of Comprehensive Secondary Sex Studies, Anatomy and Reproduction, do they cover analingus?”

Sherlock bit John’s buttock playfully.

“Naturally, it’s in the supplement, John.”

John howled with laughter and fell over.

* * *

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John petted Sherlock’s hair as he fucked Sherlock’s mouth. One of Sherlock’s fingers was buried in John’s arse. “You love sucking Omega cock, don’t you?”

Sherlock hummed. John took Sherlock’s hand in his and curled the fingers closed and kissed them. “God, I love your hands.” He kissed the hand again, then studied it. “Do you think you could get your whole fist inside me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pulled off. “Shoot your load down my throat, and I’ll try.”

* * *

John’s eyes were wide open. His mouth was wide open.

“Fu-u-uck!”

“All right?”

“Yeah, yeah, good. Just definitely not a cock.”

“My whole fist, John. Now whenever you look at my hands—”

“—which is bloody often, Sherlock—”

“—you can remember how you took it all inside you, so bloody, so fucking, so goddamn, so good, John, please, after this, I shouldn’t ask, you’ll be sore, you’ll be stretched, hell, you’re not even in heat, but look at you, God, John, just look at you, open and fucking filled, after this, please, fuckin’ take me, I need to be inside you, need your cunt so desperately, I’m hard and dripping, anything you want, but please—"

“Told you,” croaked John with a weak smile. “Take everything you’ve got, Alpha, and leave you begging. Come on, that’s enough. Shoot that pretty load up in me. Piss me up good, Sherlock, or I’ll make you do it again.”

“Promise?”

* * *

Sherlock gently withdrew his hand and wiped it on the bed. “Still good?”

“Yeah, yeah, give us a minute.” John groaned. His head lolled back and forth on the bed as he bent his knees and wiggled legs and rolled his torso from left to right.

Sherlock hovered beside John, watching expectantly. Then John nodded and reached a hand out towards Sherlock.

Sherlock twined his fingers in John’s. Then he covered John’s body with his, covered John’s mouth with his, and rocked their bodies together.

John’s knees began to rise, and his hips began to curl.

Sherlock supported John’s thighs with his hands.

“Like the first time,” said John in a soft tone.

“Like the first time,” agreed Sherlock. “But better.”

They kissed. They licked, the tips of tongues tracing noses and chins. They bit, lower lips and earlobes and, Sherlock’s case, even cheekbones. They nuzzled and hummed and kissed more, only pausing to look down every now and then and watch as their lower bodies fucked, as John’s body took Sherlock’s breeching, as John’s tightening met Sherlock’s throbbing, as Sherlock pushed deeper and deeper and as John’s welcomed him with every thrust. They listened to the wet noises of a slicked cock sliding in and out of a stretched cunt and their collective groans and ragged breaths.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Their lips met.

“I love you, too, John.”

John gripped Sherlock’s buttocks, urging him deeper. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock bit at the corner of John’s mouth, “you can only get a monster fuck from a monster cock.”

John chuckled. “Give it to me, stud. And, uh, maybe one more for the road?”

Sherlock laughed.

* * *

Somewhere in the South of France, a mobile rang.

“Stamford. Wait, what?...Missing Omega pheromone?...Oh, recovered? Where? Well, someone might have mislaid it, but that seems unlikely. Do the security cameras show anything? What? That sounds fishy, but if it’s tainted, undamaged, and it was, after all, in trial…What? Unauthorized use of a suite!…Who?...Oh, Good Lord!…What are they doing?...I know all about ethics, I also know about Sherlock Holmes…okay, just link me to the feed and I’ll decide for myself...”

Stamford set his glasses on his forehead and studied the screen of his mobile.

“… _GIVE ME THAT MONSTER COCK, OH, FUCK, YEAH! COME ON, BABY! GIVE ME THAT GRAVEYARD SMASH_ …!”

Stamford sighed and put the phone to his ear.

“Uh, yeah, mute the sound, but keep the video, I may be able to use it. Training video’s due for an update in the spring. The supplement, too, for that matter, that’s all—oh, but if they aren’t out in twenty minutes, turn the hoses on them. Yes? Great. Thank you. ‘Bye.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited. I realized about an hour after I posted this chapter that I forgot to include the reason why John did what he did. It was in my head but it didn't make it to the electronic page. I've added it now. I know most of my gentle readers who are selecting this type of fic for their reading pleasure aren't sticklers for character motivation (unless that's what the children are calling it these days!) but nevertheless, it might be plot hole big enough to distract. He's not just an Alpha cock whore :) Cheers and, as always, thanks for your encouragement and support.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is the mysterious Yeti-Prick?
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 Day 24 - Shower/Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read the second fic in the series, Lestrade's got a clit.

“Do you have to go?” asked John, looking up from his mobile.

“Nah. Just work. I took care of it.” Lestrade slipped back onto the barstool. “What’s so funny?”

“The Yeti-Prick is in London.”

“That what?!”

“You know what a yeti is, right?”

“Yeah, abominable snowman, bigfoot, etcetera. I love all that shit. And I read a good book about cryptids not too long ago. What was it called? I forget. Mycroft took the piss something awful about it.”

“Well, this Yeti-Prick is an Alpha who posts mysterious photos of his erect cock in places around the world.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, he’s huge and he’s been to China, South Africa, Indonesia…”

“Some Alphas have way too much time, and cock, on their hands. Are you certain it’s not Sherlock playing with photoshop?”

“I know Sherlock’s cock. Not him.”

“But he likes to show off his Machine. Hey, I hear there’s a sequel coming out to _Count Cockula_. I already paid my subscription, in fact.”

“You know, for a quasi-bonded Omega, you’re a bit of a tart, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade smiled into his pint. “Guilty. If I wasn’t so thoroughly satisfied in my current state, I’d be sorely tempted to seek out this Yeti-Prick and give him a go. That supernatural stuff always gets me.”

“Well, you best be careful. The Yeti-Prick is now in our little corner of the map. And if Mycroft Holmes smells him on you—oof!”

“Mycroft’s in…somewhere far away…he’s been gone two weeks.”

“That sucks, Greg.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life. Work’s been murder, heh, heh, and I haven’t been around myself much.”

“Well, if you want to have a fun night, there are even AO4 stories about the Yeti-Prick.”

“AO4?”

“What rock do you live under, Greg? Archive of Our Omega Own?”

Lestrade looked blank.

“Omegas post all kinds of stories and artwork and videos about, you know, Omegas doing all kinds of things.”

“Naughty things, I’ll bet,” said Lestrade.

“Very naughty things and very innocent things and everything in-between. But there are Omegas who post stories about their encounters with the Yeti-Prick. I don’t believe them. Wish fulfillment, all of it.”

“Is it wrong to make wishes?” asked Lestrade philosophically as he drained his glass. “Well, I’m done.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Send me links to that stuff. Might be worth a chuckle or two.”

“Will do.”

* * *

On his journey home, Lestrade nearly walked into two walls. When he stepped into a street without looking, a hand pulled him back just in time.

“Detective Inspector, don’t you know it’s dangerous to text and walk?”

Lestrade looked up, a bit dazed. “Hullo, love. Not texting. Just looking. How was your trip?”

“Long and tedious and, thankfully, over,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade dropped his mobile in his coat pocket, and they walked in companionable silence the rest of the way home.

When they crossed the threshold, Mycroft asked,

“So, what has you so recklessly enthralled, my love?”

“I was wondering why my Alpha was posting dick pics on the internet.”

“Ah. You finally found the Yeti-Prick.”

“Yeah, John showed it to me tonight. What on earth, Mycroft, possessed you to do that?”

“That book you read, the ridiculous one. And then I left for three weeks and I was half-mad with missing you. I’ve been traveling so much, been away far, far too much of late. I just wanted to do something to show you I was thinking about you, wanting you. I knew you’d find it eventually.

Lestrade stared, then blinked. “You missed me?! Most people send a text! Or, you know, call or something! Not create some sort of mythical phallic beast for online consumption!”

“I’m not most people, Gregory, not even most Alphas. And I do love to be dramatic.”

“Yeah, you do,” said Lestrade, grinning. “And even more than the Stamford bond, it just goes to show we’re mates.”

“And how do you arrive at that exceedingly satisfying conclusion?”

“’Cause I ought to be worried about your mental health, but I’m too turned on. There are stories about you, you know, by all these Omegas who are aching for that big, thick monster cock.” Lestrade’s voice fell to a low awed rumble and he stared openly at Mycroft’s crotch. “And you so fucking big in those photos, no wonder most Omegas think you’re supernatural.”

“The camera adds ten inches. And you are incorrect. Not all of the stories are laudatory. Have you read the ones where Count Cockula defeats, in a most humiliating fashion, the Yeti-Prick?”

Lestrade started laughing. “No, but I can guess who the author of it is.”

“At one point, the Yeti-Prick is imprisoned in the Cake of Doom.”

“Of course, he is.” Lestrade kept laughing until he was forced to wipe his eyes. “Shower?”

“Yes.”

* * *

“Oh, fuck.”

Mycroft thrust shallow and short, pulling out just a little, then pushing back in until he was fully sheathed, pausing briefly to relish the bottoming out. It was the pattern he often employed when he wanted to prolong things.

And this, Mycroft wanted to savour. It was pure fantasy, his fantasy, the fantasy that had been filling his empty moments for weeks: fucking Gregory, wet and warm and open and needy, as the shower hissed, and clouds of steam billowed up.

Added to the pleasure was the fact that Gregory was being unexpectedly vocal for a non-heat setting, moaning loudly, almost shouting his obscene praise into the wet tiled wall.

Wonderfully vocal as well as wonderfully eager. He’d practically torn off Mycroft’s clothes as they entered the bathroom and now he was pushing back, putting some space between his lower body and the wall, and grabbing Mycroft’s hand, bringing it ‘round to his prick.

“Come on, baby, please. I need it so badly. Don’t bother playing with the clit. Just wank me.”

Mycroft began to stroke Gregory’s prick.

“Too slow! Oh, please, My. Don’t tease.” Gregory brought his own hand ‘round Mycroft’s fist, urging him to stroke faster, then he turned his head. Mycroft kissed him tenderly. Gregory, in turn, bit at Mycroft’s lips, then pushed his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft pulled away and licked soothingly along the ridge of Gregory’s shoulder, just over the unbroken bonding gland.

“Shhh. Slow down, Gregory. This is so good, and I’ve missed you so much. I want to draw it out.”

“No! I’ll give you two rounds, four, hell, take me to bed and fuck me all night. My!” Their lips met again. “Please, I need you,” Gregory pleaded and suckled at Mycroft’s bottom lip, then he kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “I’ve missed _you_ so much.”

“Fuck you all night?” echoed Mycroft. That was the other fantasy.

“Promise.”

Gregory clutched tight ‘round Mycroft’s prick.

WHAM!

Mycroft pulled out, then slammed into Gregory and gave Gregory’s shaft one violent jerk.

And then they were both coming.

Mycroft pulled out. Gregory tugged at Mycroft’s arms, bringing them up to his shoulders.

Mycroft widened his stance, pressed his legs against Gregory’s, and curled his arms ‘round Gregory’s head and neck. Indeed, Mycroft did everything humanely possible to cover Gregory’s body with his own, to hide Gregory beneath him, and press him hard, much harder than was Mycroft’s instinct, to the wall.

Since they’d shared a heat, Mycroft had learned much more about what Gregory needed from an Alpha.

He purposefully let Gregory quiver and shudder and even fight a little, like a moth in a cupped hand, all the while licking the nape of his neck and whispering syrupy endearments in his ear.       

“My?”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open when he felt the stab of cold. He redoubled his efforts.

Kissing. Licking. Reassuring. Holding Gregory fast. Surrounding him with Alpha pheromones and, yes, love.

“I’ve got you, Gregory. What is it, mmm? What’s wrong?”

Mycroft snaked his right arm around Gregory’s chest, then he dropped his left hand. There was no way he could manage another erection so soon, but sometimes petting and fingering helped ease Gregory’s anxiety.

When Gregory stepped his legs apart, Mycroft knew he was right. He found Gregory’s clit and began to tease it. As he rubbed, he felt the tension in Gregory’s body ebb.

“My?”

“Anything, Gregory.”

“How do you know what I’m going to ask?”

“I don’t. I just know the answer.”

“My?”

“Mm?”

“I love it when you play with my clit.”

“I’m going to suckle it next...”

Gregory whimpered. “Yeah?”

“…as soon as you tell me what’s on your mind.”

“This Yeti-Prick business.”

“Yes?”

“You think we could go up to the cottage this weekend? Or sometime soon?”

“Tomorrow if you’d like.”

“I’m on call.”

“You needn’t be.”

“If we went up there, do you think we could…?”

At the cold draught, Mycroft’s fingers moved to Lestrade’s cunt. He traced the slit then probed.

“Three fingers, My?”

Mycroft obliged, thrusting three fingers in and out of Gregory’s tight cunt.

Gregory hummed. “Do you think we could, I don’t know, do a bit of…”

“Roleplay?”

Gregory released the breath he’d been holding, and the temperature rose by degrees.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Mycroft, smiling.

Gregory’s excitement was bloody contagious.

“The whole bit?! You know, lonely Omega camper in the woods alone, a tent, surprised by a big hulking monster.”

Mycroft laughed. “Yes, yes, and yes, as long as the Omega is ruined for non-monstrous pricks forever.”

“Christ, My. Ravage me? Mills & Boon meet _The X Files_?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, yeah. I’m getting wet and hard just thinking about it. Let’s go to bed. I’m going to ride that beautiful mouth of yours then bugger your tight arse!”

Mycroft chuckled to himself. “Welcome home.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft & Lestrade role-play in the woods. Warning for mention of heat.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 25 - Olfactophilia.

To control his mounting excitement, Lestrade sank further and further into his role, and by the time he’d pitched the tent, he’d almost convinced himself that he was just an ordinary outdoors enthusiast enjoying a solitary night in the woods.

He’d not seen Mycroft all day. They’d arrived separately, Lestrade driving and Mycroft via his car service.

Lestrade checked his watch for the thousandth time.

It finally was eight o’ clock!

He loosened the reins of heady anticipation and crawled out of the tent.

There were night vision goggles in his pocket. It was the only thing about which they’d quarreled. Lestrade had protested that if he was going to be a character in a bad horror film, he ought to behave as idiotically as the protagonists usually did, but Mycroft had insisted on the goggles for Lestrade’s safety. They’d eventually settled on Lestrade promising to carry them on his person and put them on at the first sign he needed them.

The moon was bright and perfect. In the distance, Lestrade could just make out the cottage, his cottage, in fact, for Mycroft had bought and given it to him at the end of the heat they’d shared.

With every step, Lestrade’s heart beat faster. He could not control his glee. He was living the fantasy of a science fiction lover, as well as quite a few Omegas judging by the assortment of Yeti-prick stories on AO4, and it was all thanks to an Alpha with deep pockets who was just as nutty as Lestrade was.

Lestrade had gone about two hundred yards when he stopped and bit his lip.

There!

By the lake’s edge!

Jesus!

Mycroft hadn’t said anything about a fur suit! And a full headdress!

He looked so good, so much like an abominable snowman, that Lestrade would not have recognised him but for his scent, which was unmistakably familiar and Alpha, and for his prick, which was out.

_Yeti-prick wanking in the moonlight._

Lestrade was glad that he was still biting his lip, or he would have certainly laughed. And that might have broken the spell.

He inched closer, slowly, looking down, and soon found what he sought.

A twig to snap under his feet.

SNAP!

The monster turned abruptly and grunted.

And then the race was on.

Lestrade ran back towards the tent. In a few moments, the monster was giving chase and rapidly gaining on him.

* * *

Lestrade dove in the tent.

He had untied and removed his boots by the time he heard the monster puffing without.

And then he was thrown on his back and covered in a heavy mass of white fur.

Both predator and prey were panting hard as the tent filled with the delicious scent of Alpha.

Lestrade looked up into shining hazel eyes and smiled, marveling at the mask, a grey, leathery cryptid face with shocks of white hair which covered the whole head.

“Oh, I’ve been caught by the Yeti-prick? What ever shall I do?” he whispered.

The monster grunted.

Lestrade’s body was already responding, growing stiff and wet and warm and loose.

“I suppose I should just surrender to your mammoth prick.”

The monster grunted again.

Its fur paws were mitten-like coverings for thin-gloved hands that unfastened and pushed Lestrade’s trousers and pants down. Lestrade reached to wrench the clothes completely off his body while the gloved hands found the bottle of slick.

Lestrade’s head was thrown back. His mouth was open. He was screaming silent screams. The sensation of the fur brushing his stomach and thighs felt amazing, and amazingly foreign, but the prick that breeched him felt like home itself.

Lestrade closed his eyes, seized the fur, and lifted his hips.

The monster thrust, and Lestrade thought he might go mad from the surreal pleasure of it.

But that was just the beginning.

The monster pulled out and drew Lestrade up. They switched places and Lestrade crawled atop the beast, sinking down on the exposed prick.

And then one gloved hand was stroking Lestrade’s prick. And one gloved hand was teasing Lestrade’s clit. And Lestrade was bouncing on a cock and clenching ‘round it 'til…

…they both came with a single, monstrous roar.

* * *

Lestrade lifted off of Mycroft’s prick.

“You’re fantastic. I can’t believe this. Like a fantasy made real. Thank you.”

Mycroft had enjoyed his performance and reveled in Gregory’s enthusiasm, smelling the pungency of excited Omega long before he’d heard Gregory’s approach.

But as fun as the role-play had been, Mycroft was keen to divest himself of the costume. He was sweating profusely, and it was difficult to see through the eye-holes in the mask.

But as Gregory was snuggled against him, eyes closed, positively purring with contentment, Mycroft supposed changing clothes could wait.

He threw his arms possessively around Gregory’s lower back, for the night was very chilly, and it would soon be uncomfortably cold for anyone who was without a full-body suit of fur.

Mycroft closed his own eyes and took a deep breath and…

…froze.

Then he took another deep breath.

Gregory’s body tensed.

Mycroft looked down.

Gregory’s eyes were open. He looked up at Mycroft, searchingly, confusedly, disbelievingly.

Mycroft frowned and felt his emotions mirroring that of Gregory’s changing expressions.

His heat was not due for another…

“Two months,” said Gregory quickly. “Maybe it isn’t…”

But the fragrance in the tent was ripe and raw and Mycroft had no doubts as to its nature. And if he needed any confirmation, just then, his prick began to stir.

Gregory’s expression was blank, but his hand went to his chest and commenced to scratch absentmindedly.

Then Mycroft felt a chill that turned the sweat on his skin to ice crystals.

“No, no, no! Not happening! Not ready!”

And then Gregory had thrown himself out of the tent.

* * *

Mycroft ran.

The moon illuminated the woods, but even if it had been complete darkness, there was still the scent of an Omega going into heat. Mycroft would have to be a very poor Alpha, indeed, to be unable to track Gregory in his flight.

With every breath, the aroma grew stronger.

In the end, it was that cliché of all horror films, the tripping on a tree root, which slowed Gregory enough for Mycroft to catch up with him.

He threw himself on Gregory, relieved when Gregory curled his arms ‘round him and whimpered,

“Please.”

Mycroft obliged.

He turned Gregory over roughly and pressed his head into the ground. Then he withdrew his own prick.

And mounted.

A furry monster Alpha fucking a half-nude Omega.

In the moonlight. On the cold October night. In the lonely woods.

When Mycroft had spent himself, he pulled out.

Gregory was laughing. Not hysterically, genuinely.

Mycroft smiled to himself.

Gregory rolled onto his back and looked up with such trust and love that Mycroft’s vision blurred for a moment.

“Truth is stranger than fiction. It’s just like those stories about you on the internet. I’m sorry, my love. I got spooked. My instincts have never been the best.”

He sat up hugging Mycroft like a child. Mycroft’s heart warmed.

Gregory lifted his head. “The cottage?”

Mycroft nodded. He got to his feet and helped Gregory to stand, his mind flooded with all that had to be be done before the next wave.

* * *

BEEP!

Sherlock put down the talking vibrator and glanced at his mobile.

“Lestrade back?” asked John.

“No,” said Sherlock. “He’s gone into heat.”

“Bit early, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing they were already at the cottage. In other news, the Yeti-Prick’s found a mate! Oh, damn, well, that’ll make a lot of Omegas on the internet sad. He shouldn’t have brought his monstrous dong to England. We’ve the best Omegas here.”

John gave Sherlock a wink.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his prick.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's invention goes awry. For Kinktober 2018 Day 26: Toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hallowe'en to all my gentle readers! May all your cocks be monstrous!

“’Bye,” called John, turning the page of his novel, “give my love to all the recently departed and their liver cells.”

An hour later, John addressed the empty room,

“Tea.”

He stood and went to the kitchen, passing by the table where Sherlock had been working all morning. He eyed the object in the centre.

“It could be worse. It could be a real penis instead of a robotic one.”

John switched on the kettle.

“Hello, John!”

John jumped and looked about the kitchen and sitting room.

“Hello?” he called tentatively.

“How are you today?”

“Oh, god! It’s the cock!” exclaimed John. “Bloody hell! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

“Yeah. Nobody expects a talking cock.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t fancy one!”

“Oh, you’re a cheeky bugger!”

“I could be! But I wouldn’t want to hurt you, John.”

“Is that you, Sherlock? Are you doing this by remote control or something? Where’s the speaker?” strode to the kitchen table and took up the cock, examining it from every angle.

“Whoa, easy, John! Shouldn’t you let me buy you a drink first?”

John laughed. “If this is some kind of computer algorithm or artificial intelligence programme, I’m going to be bloody impressed!”

“Nine inches doesn’t impress you? Sheesh. Demanding, but that’s all right. I’ve got what you need.”

“Thanks, mate,” said John, still laughing. He set the cock down on its base on the table. “But I prefer the original.”

“Can the original do this?”

The cock buzzed violently.

“Not quite that fast,” John admitted.

“Or this?”

The cock moved up and down, shortening and lengthening.

“Now that it can do,” said John, wondering what the probability was that Sherlock had drugged the tea and this was all a hallucination.

“Or this?”

A wet sheen broke out all over the cock.

“Self-lubrication would come in handy, heh, heh, I’ll admit, outside of heat.”

The cock hopped around in a circle.

“Wanna take a ride?”

“Thank you, but no, thank you. I’m going to have a cuppa and read my book.”

“All right, but I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

“That’s, uh, chivalrous of you.”

“I’m a gentle-cock, John.”

* * *

John settled back in his armchair with his book and his tea, but his thoughts kept wandering.

How finished was the prototype? Was it dangerous?

When John reached the end of a chapter, he decided to stand and stretch and take the empty mug back to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

The cock said nothing.

“Maybe you’ve run out of batteries.”

The cock buzzed in John’s hand.

“Ready when you are, John!”

John smiled.

“Sherlock wouldn’t like it…”

“Would like that his invention was so fantastic, so charming that it tempted the most skeptical of its target demographic? Hmm…”

John laughed. He ran a hand up and down the shaft.

“Feels good, John.”

John looked about the kitchen and sitting room and finally said,

“What the hell? Why not?”

* * *

“You feel good, really good,” said John as he sank down on the slippery cock.

“So do you, John.”

The cock began to buzz inside John, then thrust, up and down.

“Oh, oh, oh!” exhaled John in short bursts of breath.

John had rolled away the rug, then stripped from the waist down. Now he was now on his knees in the middle of the sitting room with the cock standing straight up between his thighs when he raised himself and breeching his cunt when he lowered his body.

John wrapped a slicked hand ‘round his prick and began to bounce on the cock.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

He was close. So close.

He lifted up to sink back down on final time, but then…

…nothing!

“What?”

John looked down between his legs.

The cock had fallen on its side and was now rolling away.

“No!” cried John. “Come back!”

John lunged for the cock, but it hopped just out of his reach.

“What the fuck?!”

“Can’t catch me!” cried the cock as it hopped towards the kitchen.

“Is this some kind of joke?!”

John’s body was aching. His anger flared.

“It’s not funny!” he said as he got to his feet and marcher after the cock.

“Silly Omega! Silly Omega!” chanted the cock, dodging John’s attacks by hopping under the kitchen table.

John slid the kitchen chairs away. His body was on fire now. He needed to be filled.

“I need a fuck!” he yelled.

“Yeah, too bad about that,” said the cock. “Nah-nah! Oops! Almost got me there!”

John hit his head hard on the underside of the table. He hit his arms hard on the table legs. Astonishingly, his own cock was still stiff, his cunt still wet, and his anger fanning to rage.

“You’ll never get me!” called the cock.

John uncurled himself from under the table and reached for the knob of the cabinet beneath the sink.

“We’ll see about that,” he said with a menacing growl as his hand found the hammer.

* * *

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“JOHN!”

John stopped. He looked up.

“SHERLOCK!”

John blinked as if waking from a dream.

Debris. Hammer.

“Oh, God,” he cried and burst into sobs. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, John.”

Sherlock knelt and reached for John. He drew John to his chest and held him tight.

“It’s okay, John. I’ve got you.”

“How is it okay? I destroyed your work!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Don’t you?”

Sherlock pulled back and looked down.

John looked up, dazed.

“Inhale, John.”

John did as Sherlock bid.

“OH GOD!”

“Your Alpha wasn’t here when your heat started. It’s perfectly normally for you to get a bit confused, panicky, violent.”

“But my heat isn’t due for…”

“Things happen.”

“I’m still sorry, Sherlock, about the cock.”

“I’ve got all the plans and it had some bugs anyway. I’ll sweep this up and bin it between rounds and start anew after your heat. Come on, John. Let me take care of you.”

And with that Sherlock opened his trousers and drew out his cock. John scrambled onto it as Sherlock’s hand wrapped ‘round his prick.

“That’s what I need,” sighed John as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

* * *

Sometime in the night, shadowy figure reached a hand into the bins outside 221 Baker Street, withdrew a plastic bag and carried it away, whistling a jaunty, slightly Irish version of a familiar tune.

“ _I was working in the laboratory late one night_ …”


End file.
